


Words Unspoken

by Deus_Ex



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Armor, Bard's kids love Tauriel and Legolas, Battle of Five Armies, Erebor, M/M, Parent Thranduil, Parent-Child Relationship, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Slow Burn, Thranduil's A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-06 10:35:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3131429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deus_Ex/pseuds/Deus_Ex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Bard really wanted to say something, and one time he finally did.</p><p>Rating upped; all tags updated as well.  Spoilers for BotFA.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For Hathor, who has left me kudos and comments on everything and not-so-gently requested this finally be a thing. <3
> 
> I know that this chapter and next are excruciatingly short, but I made this a multi-chapter work because the last three and the +1 are pretty lengthy. So bear with me on that, please.

When he'd first seen the Elvenking, he was struck dumb by the picture he presented. Taller than any man, with hair such a pale gold to almost appear white, eyes as blue as the sky and as hard as the steel of the sword he carried, and so graceful in his movements it seemed he was gliding rather than walking, King Thranduil Oropherion was a magnificent sight. He arrived riding on a massive elk, the creature taller than even he was and with antlers that were wider than Bard was tall. They forked and split and reached, forming great scooping platforms that were large enough to cast a shadow and, Bard suspected, catch rain. Upon arrival, the Elvenking gave him nothing more than a nod as he breezed past, his enormous mount ambling slowly over the ground with decisive _clops_ of his feet. The animal had a kinder eye than its master: a soft, liquid brown that looked upon him kindly before moving on so gently that he couldn't even hold it against the creature for not lingering. The rider, he could almost blame, though. _Wait!_ he wanted to cry. _At least let me thank you!_ But the king of the elves would grant him no such favor, and no excuse to remain. He was forced to watch him go, a figure clothed in black and silver and crowned with the same, lengthy cloak snapping in the breeze like a sheet of ink spellbound into taking a shape. That was the first time Bard of Laketown had ever let words pass between him and another unsaid, but it would not be the last.


	2. Chapter 2

He encountered Thranduil once again not long after that. The Elvenking was sitting astride his mighty elk, overseeing the caravan his people had brought with them. He cut an imposing figure, but not a cruel or menacing one: instead, his countenance was merely stern and observant. Bard was drawn to him immediately, and this time, he did not hesitate to speak: "King Thranduil!" he meant to proclaim in greeting. Instead, it was an awed gasp. He would have time to scold himself for it later. In the mean time, this man's piercing gaze had set upon him, and he would not disillusion himself with notions that he could break free from it, even if he wanted to. "We did not expect to see you here!"

"I heard you and your people needed aid," the king replied, and his voice instantly sent a shiver down Bard's spine. He had never heard anything like this man's voice, and he knew immediately in some base part of him that this voice was not one belonging to a mortal. Deep, smooth, sultry, and yet with such power behind it that Bard suddenly felt like a serpent charmed into dancing. He was a glorious, imperious figure who commanded attention and respect-and how could Bard deny him that?

"I don't know how to thank you," he said, finding himself grinning as his people descended upon the carts of food the elves had brought. They hadn't eaten in days and hadn't eaten decently in months-to see fresh vegetables and fruits and grains in their midst brought them joy unlike any other. For a moment, they could forget that Thranduil had arrived not just with food and water, but also with a sizable force that was in fact armed to the teeth. For now, he could pretend that the golden-armored elves were merely escorts, and ignore the vast array of them just beyond the town's walls.

"Your gratitude is misplaced," Thranduil said, voice cold and deadpan and his stare ever blank and emotionless. His face and tone gave away nothing, and Bard was struck by the frank indifference he displayed. He hadn't the faintest clue what Thranduil was thinking. Still, it hardly weakened the spell the Elvenking had cast over him. "I came to reclaim what is mine."

While his mind reeled and struggled with the information he had just been given, Bard found himself helplessly floundering as Thranduil rode away to command his people. Like a puppet with its strings cut, he felt deflated and boneless, like he'd just been released from some sort of mind control. For all he knew, it was: surely the elves were magical creatures, they had to have some sort of mystic aura about them! And for Thranduil to be king had to mean that his was superior...his charisma was surely enough to persuade elves to follow him. Bard couldn't imagine these people sitting quietly as their king tore his own nation apart. They were proud and strong, and he liked to envision that they would overthrow a lesser ruler and place someone worthy on the throne instead. Or perhaps they lived for so long that they outlived the childish, greedy urges of men and dwarves, making for truly wise and sagacious rulers.

Bard wandered about the rest of the day in a fog. He did his best to aid his people, but the Elvenking would not leave his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, given that I had it written already...here ya go. Next one should be up tomorrow, I need to edit. The next one is sizable enough to be a real chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

The next time he stood before the king it was a much more intimate setting. A small tent had been set up to serve as a command center-and by "small," they were using Elven standards, not men's. There was plenty of room for a table, several chairs, and Thranduil's scaled-down version of a throne, in addition to lighting to be set up underneath the thick canvas. And still it felt spacious! The elves were quite spoiled if they regarded this as cramped and lacking. From what Bard could see, it had everything they needed and they weren't on top of each other. It was perfect. Well...he wouldn't mind so much being a bit closer to the ethereal being clothed now in silver that sat on the curling filigree design of a silver throne, draped in red and sitting just a few inches above everyone else. Just to say that it was. But Thranduil showed no indication of giving up his token advantage over the room, and so Bard and Gandalf were left to mill about the space between the throne and the table. There was plenty, and Bard wasn't sure if it was a blessing or a curse to be expected to hover in that middle ground. Not avoiding the Elvenking, not crowding him...he would have very much enjoyed an excuse to crowd him, to find out if his skin felt as cool as it looked.

The king spoke mostly to Gandalf. They fought over proceedings, battle strategies, whether or not this was all truly necessary-and Thranduil was having none of it. Stubborn as a mule but still somehow as beautiful as a white stallion, Thranduil elegantly and powerfully shot down each of Gandalf's pleas for mercy for the dwarves. He seemed to be a bit more receptive to Bard's words, even as uneducated and ignorant as they were. Probably because Bard had yet to challenge the king as Gandalf had. Oh, Bard placed plenty of stock in Gandalf's word: he didn't like how Thranduil seemed to dismiss him as a mad old wizard making mountains out of molehills. Gladly accepting a goblet of wine from the king, wondering why he had left Gandalf without one, Bard listened closely as Thranduil eloquently dismissed Gandalf once again as the wizard continued to plead for the lives of the dwarves and the delay of war. Bard couldn't even bring himself to be offended at Thranduil's harshness: by now, he was well-wrapped in the king's spell again, enchanted by his presence alone. There was something about a person being walled off that made him want to break through the walls that much more.

He finally got his first glimpse into the king with the arrival of the burglar, Bilbo Baggins. A little hobbit who had traveled with the dwarves, regarded them as friends, and now sought to save them. Upon his arrival, Thranduil looked at him with the closest thing to irritation that Bard suspected he would ever see on Thranduil's face, and sneered his disapproval of Bilbo's presence by revealing that it was Bilbo who had stolen keys to the dungeon from his guards and released the dwarves he had imprisoned. Ah...so that was what had happened. Thranduil had imprisoned the dwarves, likely for trespassing, and somehow the little hobbit had gone missing in the commotion. Later, the only free member of the party had sneaked back in and released his friends, apparently through the port that the elves released empty barrels. Bard had been collecting those empty barrels for years now, picking them up for enough down the river that no one else would bother him to bring back to town and sell for a few bucks. Any little bit helped to put some food besides fish on the table for his children, and it seemed he was the only one not afraid of the shadows of Mirkwood. This time, however, there had been dwarves making an escape in the barrels, and they had dragged Bard and his family and the whole damn town into their mess. At least Bilbo had the decency to look sheepish. He seemed to know that it was his actions that had set off the domino-effect chain of events that had led them to war at the foot of a mountain. "Right...sorry about that," he muttered, staring down at his feet, cowed by Thranduil's accusatory glare. Thranduil looked like he had half a mind to throw him out, but then, the hobbit made his presence quite valuable again: he produced a small parcel from inside his jacket and laid it on the table, and declared it the bargaining chip that would save them all from war.

When the wrappings were pulled back, even Bard was transfixed by the sight that lay before him. Yes, it was a large white gem; even a commoner like him had seen such jewels. But so much smaller, and never had they shone with such a radiance! The stone had a phosphorescent glow, projecting little rainbow tendrils and swirls across its surface, smooth as _(Thranduil's skin)_ the silk it was wrapped in. When his eyes fell upon it, Thranduil was spellbound. Rising to his feet, his lips parted and his eyes widened, the elf king could not tear his gaze away from the precious gem that this little hobbit from the Shire had laid on the small table not three feet in front of him. "The heart of the mountain," he gasped, and Bard was suddenly struck not by the jewel but the shock and awe in Thranduil's voice. His mind was wandering, painting inappropriate pictures of something else entirely stealing the Elvenking's composure- "The king's jewel," Thranduil continued softly, and Bard didn't think he'd ever heard the king anything close to breathless. But now...he sounded like the mere sight of the jewel had cast the same spell over him as he cast over Bard. The king stared down at the jewel with wide eyes and parted lips, and Bard tried very hard not to think of exactly how much he liked that expression.

Now, even Bard had heard of the Arkenstone. It was the stone that had called the dragon last time, the one that had driven the last ruler of Erebor mad with gold sickness and greed. It was the stone that gave the bearer the right to rule the mountain: and Thorin would pay dearly for it. "And worth a king's ransom," Bard remarked, trying to think of anything but how the breath rushed out of Thranduil in a soft sigh. It was a poor, poor, piss-poor idea, but he wandered closer to the table anyway, keeping his gaze firmly locked on the stone that Bilbo had unveiled while his mind was still completely locked on how close he was to Thranduil, how the elf's presence was so strong that even from inches away, he could feel the tingle of his preternatural power. Luckily, Gandalf also meandered closer; just close enough to break Bard's focus again, but not close enough to be able to tell what he'd really been fixated on. The shift in concentration was aided again when the hobbit spoke. Bilbo claimed that Thorin valued the stone above all else, and would trade them anything for its return. It was admirable how he wanted to save his dwarvish friends, but Bard had to wonder to what point. He'd spoken with Thorin himself: the man was completely beyond reason. He was blinded by treasure, consumed by it: ah, but maybe it would be treasure that broke through to him, no? They would do anything to avoid war if they could. Anything to stop the senseless, pointless waste of blood.

As long as it wouldn't bring more, Bard reminded himself. "How is this yours to give?" he asked, turning to Bilbo with his arms folded across his chest. It would do them no good to try to bargain with Thorin for the stone if the dwarf would only scream about lies and thievery and tricks.

"I took it as my fourteenth share of the treasure," Bilbo declared proudly. Something told Bard that Thorin hadn't exactly approved of Bilbo's claim...but the claim was in fact valid. It was the closest they were going to get to doing everything on the up-and-up, and as long as Gandalf kept an eye on Bilbo, they should be able to avoid anyone getting hurt.

"Why would you do this?" he couldn't help but ask. He'd seen the extremes of gold sickness, how it could not stand up to even the threat of a dragon: Thorin would not hesitate to take his anger out on Bilbo if his obsession was stolen from him. "You owe us no loyalty." Certainly not enough to risk his life.

"No, I'm not doing it for you," Bilbo said, shaking his head, and Bard could only feel the same sense of offense that Thranduil had given him when he essentially said the same thing. Ah, if he'd known what he missed when the flash of anger and affront came over Thranduil's face, he'd spend an eternity trying to coax it out again, for the Elvenking looked downright offended and didn't even bother to mask it! The remarks Bilbo made to explain himself were touching, but Bard still feared for the hobbit's life. He might still regard the dwarves as his friends, who he loved dearly despite their stubborn nature, pig-headed tendencies, poor manners, and secretive ways, claiming that their bravery and kindness and loyalty outweighed their faults, but the dwarves could not help that very nature. The same one that endeared them to Bilbo would also cost him dearly. Blinded by gold, the dwarves would not hesitate to put treasure above their friends. It was an odd trait of dwarves, that gold was like a magic hypnosis to them, but Bard supposed he'd seen stranger things in his life.

All it took was a single look between them, and everything passed well-understood. Bilbo had made his choice and taken his risks: now, they could either accept his gift so his chances would not have been in vain, or they could refuse and march tomorrow. It wasn't a discussion: they would honor the hobbit's sacrifice, and do what they could to avoid war. Whatever happened tomorrow happened, but at least they had tried. For what it was worth, they could in fact say that they had done everything that they could. The worst that could happen was...well, what they had come prepared to do anyway. "We will try," Bard declared. "Thank you, Master Baggins, for your courage this evening. You have perhaps helped us avoid a bloody and pointless war." Bilbo smiled at them, reassuring them once again that he was really only doing it to save Thorin and his friends; he left then, leaving the Arkenstone with Thranduil. Despite its rainbow reflections, crystalline surface, and otherworldly aura, it couldn't hold a candle to the elf who idly rolled it between his long, pale fingers. The stone seemed to hold sway over Thranduil as well, oddly enough: maybe it was something about men that jewels and finery and symbols of such power did not tempt them. _No, it is universal,_ Bard reminded himself. The former master of Laketown had quite enjoyed his riches as well. Perhaps they were all entitled to their vices, and it mattered not the race but instead the character within.

Thranduil gave Gandalf one final dismissal as the wizard continued to call for a halt to the march on Erebor. By telling Gandalf that the madness of Oakenshield would be stopped at all costs, he shut down every one of Gandalf's counter-arguments and left him fumbling for words in the aftermath of such finality. He effectively concluded their meeting by giving one of his soldiers the order to shoot down anything that moved on that mountain, effective immediately and standing indefinitely. The man nodded once in deference to his king, and immediately marched to do as commanded. The authority this man held over his people was impeccable: all he had to do was say the word, and these men would plunge into battle, risking life and limb for naught more than his word. Bard could sympathize: just looking at this man wove a spell over him as well, and not just one that had him aching to do anything for but a moment of his attention. This was an itch to command this man, to see if he could possibly tame the millenniums-old power he saw before him. He wanted to see if he could talk the right way, act the right way, and convince Thranduil's powerful, untamable spirit to bow to his will. Never break it, no: not only was it so impossible as to be beyond fantasy, but it was beyond desire as well. No, his desire was simply to be able to bridle the ancient headstrong nature he saw before him, to hold it in his hands and feel its thrum but never worry about it exploding onto him. Such a rush the mere thought gave him! and he swiftly drew his jacket closer to himself, closing it in the front. His discomfort would be obvious to the Elvenking, but perhaps he could at least hide its nature.

Gandalf departed then, muttering about, "stubbornness to rival a dwarf's," and, "madness beyond measure!" Part of Bard was glad for the wizard taking his leave, but another part was not: his hindrance was gone, yes, and therefore Thranduil's annoyance. But his distraction was gone, too. The ramblings did nothing to dissuade Bard from his infatuation-for surely, this was merely infatuation; nothing more than a spell that elves carried about them that had ensnared him briefly-and Elven magic was strong. For the moment, he would indulge, keep it to himself, and wait for it to pass. Surely there had to be a limit to-

"You will carry this tomorrow, Lakeman."

Startled, trying not to allow the sudden twitch shine through, Bard hurriedly cleared his throat and shuffled from foot to foot, suddenly feeling like he was eight years old again, caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and his mother was giving him a stern talking-to that said she could see through every one of his excuses. It was the same feeling of chagrin and sheepishness and nakedness, but in a much more mature fashion. It was difficult to put words to, especially in his state. And when Thranduil turned his eyes from the Arkenstone to him again, Bard found that his mouth and throat dried up like a desert, and his body suddenly felt like it was buzzing with an unearthly charge.

"What do you contemplate, Bard?"

He knew he had to look away. Tearing his eyes from the king, folding his arms over his chest to keep his coat closed, he bowed his head, hunched his shoulders, and busied himself with pacing slowly across the soft grass footing of the tent. All of a sudden, his worn boots swishing through the blades of green was the most interesting thing in the world as he fervently wracked his brain for an answer to give Thranduil. Something, anything! Preferably in the same vein as the truth to cut down the elf's suspicion. A lie with a bit of truth mixed in was much stronger than a lie on its own.

"I was...merely wondering," he stammered, as if trying to find a good way to word his thoughts. That was partially true. But Thranduil's endless patience and falsely-calm stare wore him down, and he blurted out, "Do elves use magic?"

A wicked smile crossed Thranduil's face then, and Bard found himself withering in the king's firm stare. _He knows,_ was the first thought to cross his mind. Oh, God, he saw right through him and he thought he was ridiculous and-

"We do."

A simple answer for a simple question, and yet so layered if the king's amused smirk had anything to do with it. Bard would be getting no more information unless he asked for it. But by now, the urge to remain in the king's presence had long passed, and it had been taken over by the desperate need to escape while his dignity was intact. It had all gone downhill very quickly once official business was concluded. He'd gotten through that encounter by the skin of his teeth, and wasn't about to push his luck. "I had no idea," he said softly, cursing how the words could come out as such a breathy gasp when he meant for them to be nothing more than a simple statement. Scrambling for a way to gracefully bow out and coming up empty, he was relieved when the king took pity on him with a knowing spark in his ice-blue eyes and told him,

"I will keep this for the night. It will be much more secure under my watch and that of my guards. We will meet again at dawn tomorrow to march on the mountain and end this madness of Oakenshield's."

"That's fine," Bard replied, a bit too quickly. "Thank you, Your Highness. For all the assistance you have given us-"

"I came only to reclaim what is mine," Thranduil interrupted, in that terrible, flat, even, deadpan, frosty tone of his. Nothing had ever sounded so musical to his ears. "After that I will not waste a single drop of Elven blood in this pointless struggle. Whatever quarrel you have with Oakenshield is between the two of you, and it is the two of you who will sort it out. Not me."

"Understood." He bowed all the same, and took his leave with a quiet, "At dawn, then. Have a good evening."

The moment he left the tent, all the things he wished to say rushed back into his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did such an overhaul on this chapter...hope it turned out okay. It's a lot better now than it was before. @_@ The next one I really like, though. Stick around, kiddies! Also stick around because about half of those tags apply to future chapters...>.>


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is certainly my favorite so far. Apparently I have a thing for armor...@_@

The following morning, he met Thranduil as requested, dressed in the closest thing to armor he possessed. It was little more than a second jacket of chainmaille, but it was far better than nothing. Bard considered himself lucky that he'd been able to scrounge up this and a sword: the majority of Laketown's weapons had been lost in the mad dash to vacate the city upon the dragon's arrival, and then they had been sunken under the lake itself by the destruction wreaked with fire and dragon's flesh. The wooden building housing the store didn't stand a chance when Smaug dug his claws into it. Bard had done his best to distribute weaponry and armor to those he knew would be fighting, but he was still coming up painfully short. The elves had been able to help a bit, having brought extra supplies, but there was still the problem that no one really knew how to use the weapons in question. A few of the Master's guards and soldiers had survived and sided with Bard, so he ensured they received weapons and armor to be effective in battle. Everyone else, though, was stuck hopelessly swinging swords that felt foreign to their hands, shifting and squirming in the armor that didn't quite fit right, hung too heavily, or hit them at the wrong places.

The elves, however, fared much better. It was obvious from the moment Bard had set his eyes on them that this was an _army._ These were men (and women, curiously enough,) that had been outfitted with custom armor, drilled for hours each day in using their weaponry and running through attack formations, and given truly beautiful weapons meant to do the job, stand up to war, and last. Armored in gold and brown and green and bronze, the elves, mostly chestnut-haired, tall, slender, and pale-skinned marched towards the mountain now, setting up in an intimidating assembly as their king finished arming himself in his tent.

When Bard entered, Thranduil was carefully gathering his hair aside as an aide helped him secure a smooth silver breastplate onto his chest. The piece of armor fit Thranduil's body like a glove; pure silver, so shiny it had to be new, and accented with highlighted carvings and etchings that indicated it was truly an artistic piece of craftsmanship. The king didn't look nervous or high-strung at all: the threat of war obviously didn't bother him. Even last night, though, he had seemed almost eager to bring an end to the line of Durin. Now, he simply looked passive, neutral, and-dare Bard venture a guess-serene. "Ah, Bard," he said simply by way of greeting, barely moving as the elf behind him leaned into a leather strap to pull it taught. Thranduil hardly gave him a glance before asking, "does the king of Dale wish to survive this battle?"

It took Bard a moment for his mind to catch up, and it truly was that long before he realized what Thranduil was saying. Surely in the face of the stunning finery the elf wore, his chainmaille would look piecemeal and shoddy. "I will enter the battle as my people do," he said firmly, impressed with how firm and decisive his voice sounded. Thranduil, once again, didn't react, but instead took one of his bracers from the elf at his side and began idly fastening it over one arm. The gesture looked entirely too familiar, belying Bard's suspicion that this armor had never seen battle. The creases in the straps holding it on told of many a battle that this armor had weathered. It stunned him: there wasn't even a scratch on the elegantly-carved silver plating. Not even the grooves in the spirals and filigrees had taken damage. This man was untouchable on the field.

"A noble sentiment," Thranduil mused absently, tugging the thick strap through the buckle as the other elf knelt to fasten greaves around his lower legs. "But one that will get you killed." As if reading his mind, the other elf handed his king the second bracer before returning to the greaves, and Thranduil never took his eyes from the armor, even as he continued to address Bard. "Do you even carry an adequate weapon?"

"I have a sword," Bard replied. He wished it sounded as confident as his previous statement had; now it only sounded like a question, as if he was seeking Thranduil's approval.

Thranduil didn't respond save for a small hum of contemplation. Bard suspected a response was coming; it would just be a while. Elves tended to take all the time in the world to do things. It was odd for beings who possessed such preternatural speed to move so slowly by choice, but Bard supposed that if they had all the time in the world, they figured they may as well take it. Thranduil, especially, seemed to be a master of playing the waiting game. The elf bustling around didn't seem fazed, either: he simply continued about his duties, lifting a jointed series of plates to Thranduil's shoulder and joining it to the breastplate to completely cover Thranduil's upper arm. The plates were tapered and layered, allowing them to slide underneath one another, but then drop down and provide more protection when the arm was relaxed. Between that and the bracers, Thranduil could take a strike across his entire arm and never come away with so much as a bruise from it. If elves even bruised, that was. The design of the armor was genius: it did allow for full coverage, but also allowed free movement. And the structure was such that movement wouldn't shift it or alter its placement, and even extended down to cover the edges of the backs of Thranduil's shoulders, previously left exposed by the plate across his back. He could lift his arms clear over his head, Bard realized, and never be exposed to any sort of danger.

As the king turned to allow his assistant to attach the other shoulder piece, Bard took a moment while he had it to drink in the sight before him. Thranduil was tall, even for an elf, and while he was still slender and tapered and lithe he was well-muscled and solid in build. Clad entirely in black underneath his armor, a split robe descended to his knees to cover his thighs but still allow motion. Dark boots, sturdy and yet comfortable, covered his feet, and underneath of them was a pair of equally-dark charcoal pants. Thranduil was wearing layer upon layer of clothing, and it didn't even look suffocating or uncomfortable. It just looked elegant, functional, and eye-catching. Even without his crown and his platinum hair free to fall into his face, it remained tucked behind a pointed ear, cooperating like it wasn't longer than even Bard's. Elves were magical creatures, if their hair could be twice as long as his and behave twice as well, Bard thought sourly.

As if to confirm his sentiment, Thranduil's companion picked up a folded piece of fabric from underneath where all of the armor had rested. The color was stunning enough: a shimmering weave of pure ebony with silver starlight woven in. It seemed to glow in the meager light from the torches and what little filtered in from the doorway, but Bard could only imagine what it would look like in the daylight. Fixed over the armor at Thranduil's back, tucked underneath the shoulder plates, the elf carefully allowed the fabric to drop to the ground, revealing it to be a cloak long enough to reach Thranduil's ankles. There was an inch or so at the bottom before the fabric reached the ground, though Bard couldn't imagine why: with Thranduil being untouchable in battle and as graceful as he was, he couldn't imagine it getting stepped on. Besides, he was a king: he would be mounted, anyway. Turning once, Thranduil let the cloak settle as his assistant stepped away to retrieve one last finishing touch. "Bard, I want you to understand something," Thranduil said, speaking at last. "I do not want to go to war. I may not agree with Oakenshield, but I am not so petty or vengeful that I would bring ruin upon my people for the sake of a feud that will likely never be put to rest. I will stay my hand as long as I can before I go to war over gold. But if my hand is forced, I will not spare him any mercy. And you shouldn't, either."

He was captivated again: spellbound by those eyes. There was more to them now than there had ever been before, and they didn't move as the other elf fastened a swordbelt around his king's waist. Dual blades hung at Thranduil's hips, curved and carved to match his armor. They held no allure for Bard: not when he could gaze into those piercing eyes and feel so undone that he never wanted to be put back together. Again, his mouth went dry as cotton and his limbs became paralyzed, and he swore there was magic in an elf's gaze alone. He should have been terribly bothered by Thranduil's words, but all he could think was, _his voice is as enchanting as his gaze..._ He understood now why some men could kill anyone and anything for any reason, if the right person were to command them.

The spell was broken when the elf returned again, gathering Thranduil's hair behind him with hands light and practiced. With the golden locks arranged carefully, Thranduil tipped his head back in the slightest to allow the other elf to place a silver circlet on his brow. It was the same precious metal as the rest of his armor, woven in the same sort of patterns and appearing to weave into his hair itself. It was beautiful, and yet spoke of all the strength and deadliness within the Elvenking himself. As beautiful as the rising sun, but as deadly as the winter storm brewing around them now. The cold nipped and cut, but he couldn't feel it when he cast his eyes upon the king, a figure that appeared so powerful it would seem he could banish the storm. Surely, this man didn't feel the cold: he felt neither the sting of a blade nor the slice of the winter wind. He was absolutely untouchable-and perhaps that was what saddened Bard most of all.

"I have no affection for them," he assured Thranduil. "They destroyed my hometown, put my children's lives at risk, took dozens of other lives, drove us out of our city...they called down that dragon and brought us all here today. I cannot forgive them for the havoc they have wreaked."

Thranduil seemed pleased with the answer. He nodded once to Bard as the other elf checked his armor one last time, inspecting every piece and every strap before finally allowing his king to leave his care. Thranduil swept from the tent in a flurry of silver and black, emerging into the muted daylight streaming through the clouds and immediately falling prey to the snowflakes fluttering down from the sky onto his head and shoulders and back. Bard followed, of course: how could he not?

"That armor is...incredible," he commented, swallowing his tongue as he realized he had pulled in another breath to add, _as glorious as the wearer._

"Yes, it was crafted in the ancient forges and smithies of my people," Thranduil told him, turning away to tell one of the guards, "ready my mount." As the man stepped away to either relay the message or do as told, Thranduil returned his attention to Bard (as much as he would ever be given of it, he was sure; the elf lord was speaking to him but still facing straight ahead and pausing to give orders to others.) "It has never born a single scratch since it was crafted upon my coronation."

Bard felt his eyebrows rising and his eyes widening, but couldn't help it. Thranduil...the elves had not had a new king in centuries! Thranduil had been king for as long as Bard, Bard's parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, every last known ancestor had lived. And the elves had seen combat plenty of times. That either meant that Thranduil shied from the front lines, or he was truly as unreachable as Bard was beginning to suspect he was.

"I advise you not to worry about me, Master Bowman," Thranduil commented barely seconds later. "This armor has seen more battles than you have seen years on this earth. Your concerns would be better directed towards your own people."

It was the only time Thranduil looked him in the eyes, but he turned to face him as well. Suddenly pinned under the weight of that gaze, Bard found his breath held in his chest. He couldn't move a muscle, couldn't even blink his eyes: and Thranduil studied him curiously for far too long. The bowman was only saved by the arrival of two elves leading the king's elk, saddled and bridled already and chomping at the bit. Hearing his mount's distinctive footfalls, Thranduil turned from Bard to place a hand on the elk's neck and a hand on the saddle; one of the elves took the leg he bent at the knee and used it to smoothly lift Thranduil into the saddle. Finding his stirrups, the Elvenking gathered his reins and turned his elk around to face the direction he marched. Even as he moved, the two men around him were arranging his cloak, checking his sword, straightening the bridle his elk wore-never ceasing to fuss until Thranduil waved them off. "I will see you shortly, Master Bowman," he said, tone even and clipped as always. And then he was gone in a flurry of hooves and antlers, black cloak billowing around him and slanted armor pieces resembling the wings and feathers of a bird. Only when he was gone from sight and people began moving in around him again could Bard catch his breath and start to think about what he needed to do again.

He'd wanted to ask how the hell the king had ended up riding an elk instead of a horse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we hit 1,000 hits, 50 kudos, and 20 subscribers on this...I am amazed and flattered and so, so grateful to everyone who takes the time to tell me how much they enjoy my work. I'm starting to see some familiar faces in the comments and kudos lists, and it's always so nice to see people coming back for more. Thank you to everyone who reads and leaves me comments and kudos; I appreciate it so, so much, it makes me so happy! <3


	5. Chapter 5

The battle was long, taxing, dragging, stressful, strenuous, and Bard was beginning to wonder if this madness would ever end. His people were tired, hungry, ill-prepared, and still, they had dived into battle on his behalf. It was a strange feeling, to know that he held some measure of sway over these people. He couldn't help but think of the fine control that Thranduil had displayed over his own people: how they were a well-oiled machine, somehow seeming less than sentient in their perfection. But perhaps perfection was attainable in certain lives, if only one lived long enough and was disciplined enough to chase it. Cutting down an orc in his path with a cry of anger and weariness both, Bard cast about desperately for some sign of relief. They just kept coming! Body after body, man after man, beast after beast...the destruction was endless, and went on for as far as his eyes could see. There was no end in sight, and seemingly no hope within reach.

It was impossible to say when the battle was actually over. The elves had long pulled back, Thranduil refusing to spill more Elvish blood onto this accursed soil. Bard couldn't blame him: the life of an elf was a precious thing. Every elf he saw slaughtered here had thousands of years of life ahead of them, and it had all been taken by these ugly, bloodthirsty monsters. He could not hold it against Thranduil if he wanted to save as much as he could. This struggle had started out pointless, and ended that way as well. A war waged over gold had turned into a war waged for no purpose at all but bloodshed. The orcs had killed seemingly at random, and struck with the intention of annihilating every last life before them. At least they were gone now, Bard reminded himself, breathing heavily as he once again looked around the battlefield. He could only hope that his children had made it safely to the Great Hall: already, he was beginning to hear news of whose bodies had been recovered, who had survived, who was injured, and who was still unaccounted for.

He was sure the Elvenking was fine. There would have been significantly more outcry if he or his people had been waylaid on their way out of the battle. Even more if the king had been injured. It was impossible for him to die, Bard thought. But still, his mind was sick with worry, and Thranduil was just another person to fuss over. As a parent, worry came to him as second nature: from the moment his first child had started crawling, danger lurked around every corner, just waiting to ensnare her in its ruthless jaws. At least now, old enough to walk well on her own, he could avoid fretting about that. But now that she could walk and talk and think and take care of her younger siblings, there was so much more to worry about. Bard had never thought he'd be worrying about his children being killed in a battle, though. Lost on the way to the store, injured falling through a weak spot in the town's poorly-constructed walkways, dumped overboard if their fragile boats and rafts failed...but never having to face violence and swords and bloodshed.

He found them in the Great Hall, as he had hoped he would. Sigrid and Tilda were already helping others, Sigrid washing wounds and Tilda handing out blankets. Bain had been seen just a short time ago, helping bring the injured back to the Hall to be seen to. Thanking the woman who'd given him direction, Bard exited the Great Hall and emerged back onto the field. The sharp sting of the cold cut into him again as the wind changed direction, and his thin, worn jacket wasn't doing him many favors. Still, cold fingers fumbled with the material, pulling it closer and tighter: now that the adrenaline was fading, the cold and achiness could set in.

It didn't take Bard long to find Bain: he was guiding a limping man clutching his arm to his stomach up the steps to the Great Hall, while another pair of men helped a comrade along, half-carrying, half-dragging him across their shoulders. Bard appreciated them sparing his son the more grisly of the injuries, and only interrupted for a moment to hug his son and tell the men to please keep an eye on him. They agreed whole-heartedly: Bain was hardly out of his childhood years, and while they all understood his desire to help, it was perhaps a bit naive in urge. At the same time, Bard understood that he could only protect his son for so long, though, and sooner or later, every man saw the perils and pains that the world had to offer. At least now Bain could say that he fought alongside his Da, and never backed away from the challenges and hardships ahead of him. Even if he was concerned, Bard was proud.

He stumbled upon several elves, several dwarves, several more men, Gandalf the wizard and his friend Radagast, and a handful of assorted animals that no one had bothered to catch yet. Bard tied the animals where he could, hoping to contain the chaos of unrestrained and panicked critters; he saw some people going back, untying them, and leading them away from time to time. At this point, it didn't matter who their rightful owners were: it was just as likely that they were dead as alive. Any wargs or orcs or goblins they came across were finished off as quickly as possible; anyone else was helped to safety. Bard wished he could say he was out here to survey the damage, take stock of what they had left, and try to formulate a plan for the next day, but he wouldn't be honest with himself if that was what he told. No, he was out here to catch one last glimpse of the Elvenking.

He'd seen Thranduil, briefly, in snatches throughout the battle, and he was terrifying. Bard hadn't thought that his face was capable of that much rage and ire, but apparently it was. Thranduil cut a deadly swath of destruction through his enemies, erupting in bone-chilling war cries made even more bone-chilling by the haunting beauty of the Elvish language. At first, Thranduil could be easily spotted by the huge, pronged antlers of his elk; later, he was harder to pick out for lack of his mount, but could still be pinpointed as a swirling storm of black and silver and blonde. Bard had wished he could have seen more of him, watched him more closely, for surely, an elf was a pleasure to watch in combat. But he'd been faced with far too many other things, and his attention had been rather forcibly redirected away from Thranduil and onto things like charging orcs with raised clubs and children running and screaming and hoping to whatever God existed that they weren't his, and that his were safe-

He almost ran smack into Thranduil as he trotted down a curving staircase and spun around the corner. The only reason he didn't, in his clumsy mortal coordination, was because the king elegantly side-stepped him and turned on his toe, leaving Bard scrambling to keep up. Frantically turning, it was all he could do not to fist his hands in the king's robes, shove him against the crumbling wall at his back, and kiss the carefully-controlled neutrality off his face. He'd given up on restraining the odd thoughts: Thranduil was a mystery, and so he had accepted anything having to do with him a mystery as well.

"How have you fared, Master Bowman?"

It occurred to Bard then that he had been standing there, staring unabashedly, for several long, dragging seconds. Thranduil must think him insane. "I-...ah...we have taken great losses...but most of the women and children survived. We have many injured as well, but...most of them, we...we can hope."

Thranduil nodded, and Bard could see sympathy in his eyes if he wanted to. "We have all lost...far too many today," he murmured. "Such waste of life is a travesty."

He had nothing more to add as they very slowly began to pace their way through the ruined city. Whatever the dragon had left intact had fallen prey to the smashing fists and hammering weapons and clumsy bodies of the orcs and their great war-beasts. Bard was starting to wonder if they could even salvage what was left of this town anymore. They'd have to start by waiting for the rain to wash the blood away from the cobblestones.

"Your children," Thranduil asked, as Bard bent down to lay his hand against the face of a fallen man. His eyes were wide open, unseeing and glazed, but he felt he should check anyway. "Did they survive?"

"...aye," Bard replied softly, standing and forcing himself to look away from the deceased. "And hardly injured, thank the stars." They had wound back around to the opposite side of whatever structure they'd come down the first time; now, they ascended the staircase on the other side, Thranduil leading in all his ethereal grace and Bard struggling to drag his heavy limbs up the stairs. How on earth Thranduil's steps could still be so light and floating, he hadn't the faintest clue. But perhaps they were not as finely controlled as they had been just hours prior.

"And...your son?"

Thranduil didn't turn around; he didn't even speak as they ascended the final stair and emerged onto the roof or balcony of whatever building happened to be beneath them. From here, they could look down on almost the entire city, and see the waste that had been lain within and before its walls. Most of the walls themselves were destroyed, speaking of the havoc wreaked within: Bard felt his throat close as he gazed out over the carnage, and then again as he placed his hands on the ramparts and his last finger gave the barest of brushes against Thranduil's. Gloved as it were, he couldn't imagine the elf felt it, but for a moment, Bard could feel the shuddering in his muscles and the weakness in his knees that belied his true feelings. Mindless lust, he scolded himself: but who wouldn't want this man, his profile silhouetted against the setting sun, his ivory skin and golden hair reflecting the magnificent colors of-

"My son will not return with me."

The words were so careful, so concise, so detached, so cold, that Bard couldn't restrain the harsh grind of his teeth as his jaw set. Thranduil had to be reeling from this: why would his son not return? Was he wounded? Was he frightened? Was he angry? Why was he leaving his father, and how could his father be so composed? "...is he...?" It was all he could manage to say without snapping into rage at Thranduil's complete indifference.

"He lives," Thranduil clarified, and Bard could almost hear the sigh of relief in his voice, "but he feels he is needed elsewhere...outside of my kingdom."

"May I ask-?"

"Please don't. I implore you, please don't. I have experienced enough pain today without having to bear the knife a second time."

He was gone before Bard could even begin to wonder where he went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearing the end...only the +1 left! Rating will go up next chapter, because we finally see some action. In the meantime, my heartfelt thanks continue to go to all who left me kudos and comment, those who subscribed, those who bookmarked, and even those who just clicked on this story. The numbers keep going up, and it makes me so happy to see so many people enjoying my work. Thank you to all my readers!!


	6. +1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter earns the upped rating. Please note the change, and enjoy the final chapter of the fic! :)

The sun was setting once more on Erebor and Dale, and in the time since Bard had last seen the horizon painted orange and gold and pink his entire world had changed. He didn't think it was possible: but in no more than a week he'd gone from simple bargeman to ruler of the city of Dale. It made his head spin. On top of that, he was now responsible for the good people of Laketown, who had always looked upon him kindly and trusted his judgment. They trusted him, and he had led them into battle, Bard thought ruefully as he once again descended the cracked cobblestone steps of the city, this time without anyone by his side. He had scoured the battlefield with his men, checking every last pulse to ensure that no one was left behind. Every orc that remained was decapitated, just to be sure; every man was brought back to the Great Hall, every dwarf was brought into the mountain, and every elf was returned to the encampment just outside the city. The dwarves had yet to choose a new king, with Durin's direct line broken: still, each contender for the crown made themselves present in an effort to reassure their people. Bard himself refused to rest until every single inch of the battlefield had been combed over and then checked again. No man brave enough to charge into the field on his behalf would suffer not just the physical pain of battle, but the emotional pain of being left alone to die. The elves, too, searched the fields, recovering every one of the bodies left strewn across the field for proper respect in death. Thranduil paced the fields, a wraith in his silent grace; he was robed entirely in black now, his armor discarded, but he still carried a sword at his hip and wore the silver circlet upon his head. Bard wanted to approach him, but every time he got close, Thranduil would turn away, immeasurable sadness in his eyes. Deterred, the bowman returned to his work.

Later that evening, at the insistence of the townspeople, Bard sat down for dinner with his children. Sigrid, Bain, and Tilda had all survived mostly uninjured, and Bard couldn't be more grateful. His family had come through the battle alive and well, and despite torn skirts and skinned knees and a lot of fright, they would all make it just fine. Clothing could be stitched and scrapes would heal. While they had lost friends and neighbors, they were still a family, and their sacrifice had not been in vain.

"Da, can we go see the elves again?"

Bard felt a smile cross his face at Tilda's request. She had been utterly taken by Prince Legolas after the young man had escorted her and her siblings back to the city before the battle, when Thranduil and Bard had needed to discuss their plans for the march on Erebor. The blonde elf had regaled her with tales of wild adventures through the woods, telling her of all manner of creatures and his various escapades through the forest. "It used to be called Greenwood, not Mirkwood," he told her as he took her hand and led her away, Bain at his heels like an eager puppy and Sigrid following close enough to keep an eye. "Because it used to be even bigger and even more alive than it is now!"

"Wow!" Bain had gasped, looking at Legolas like he was sure the sun shined from within the elf. "Can you tell us more about the magic there?"

They'd passed from earshot at that point, but Bard hadn't missed much. Both Bain and Tilda had repeated nearly every word to him that evening, excitedly babbling about all sorts of critters and some of the bow tricks Legolas had showed them, telling him all the same stories and leaping around with such enthusiasm that Bard had to wonder if Legolas had given them a bit of his seemingly-endless energy; without any of the control, that was. He'd hurried them off to bed, hoping to get some rest himself before getting up the following morning, but even the next day, their happiness did not wane. Bard couldn't bring himself to calm them down anymore: the battle would sober them quickly.

"We can," he told his daughter, offering her a smile. "And when we do, you're all going to properly thank King Thranduil for helping us."

"Yes, Da!"

"Clean up from dinner; I have to run back to the Great Hall for a few minutes. When I get back, if everything is cleaned up, we'll go."

His children erupted in joyous outcry, save for Sigrid, who offered a small smile as she began picking up dirty dishes to wash. Bard quietly excused himself, slipping away through the rapidly-darkening town to the Great Hall. He intended to make one more walk-through and make sure his direction wasn't needed, but he was also hoping to run into an elf on his way there or back. Preferably someone close to the king.

He encountered virtually no one on the way to the Hall; only a few random townspeople who had already settled down in some of the more habitable locations in the city and were milling about trying to get themselves settled. He was just as quickly shooed out of the Great Hall and ordered to rest, because everyone here had it as under control as it was going to get, and resting was just as important for him as it was for everyone else. Bard only left once the men and women attending the injured had told him of a schedule that they had arranged so that everyone could go home, sleep, and rest a bit themselves. Satisfied that his people were caring for themselves and each other, he departed again, only to run smack into an elf as he took the first step past the door.

"Pardon me," he hurriedly said, as the elf opened his mouth to speak as well. "I actually was hoping to run into one of you, though. I...is King Thranduil alright?"

"He came through the battle uninjured, sir," the elf responded. His chestnut hair and golden armor, Bard had learned, was the mark of a Silvan elf; they were regarded as the more common of the elves, whereas the Sindar, such as Thranduil and Legolas, were held in royal esteem. Perhaps he would know, then; perhaps he wouldn't.

"Is he receiving anyone this evening?" Bard pressed. "I and my family would very much like to thank him for his assistance these past few days."

"I do not believe the king wishes to see anyone, sir. He is overseeing the final proceedings for our army as we prepare to depart tomorrow morning. My apologies."

Disheartened, Bard nevertheless thanked the elf and stepped aside to make his way back through town. Leaving tomorrow morning? He must have gotten what he came here for, then. And he just as likely wasn't in the mood to stick around. He'd said it when he first arrived, though, and Bard could hardly be surprised: he had come for the heirlooms of his people, and once he had them, he had no reason to stay. He didn't care about gold or dwarvish treasure. Once he had what he'd come for, his business was concluded.

It didn't seem right, though: to leave without a word. For clearly Thranduil was not intending to see Bard again before he left. Why, though? Bard was certain things were different in Elvish culture, but wasn't part of politics catering to other cultures or at least acknowledging them as well? He understood that Thranduil was upset over his son leaving, but that was no reason to forsake diplomacy! At least his son was alive and uninjured! Why was his son leaving, anyway? All Thranduil had said was that his son felt like he was needed somewhere else, somewhere far from home. It wasn't even like they were fighting and he was storming off in a huff with some nasty words left behind, as many young adults tended to do. Legolas was still the equivalent of a young adult in Elven culture, right? Come to think of it, how old _was_ that kid?

"Alright, kids, is everything cleaned up?" Bard asked, poking his head back in through the door. As expected, he was met with a resounding chorus of, "Yes, Da!!" and two very energetic bodies slamming into his knees. Chuckling, unable to hold the ache in his joints against them, Bard just smiled and ushered them out the door. They had their coats on already, too: clearly they were excited if they were doing things like cleaning up the kitchen and putting on proper winter clothing without prompting. "Now, be polite!" Bard reminded his children, shepherding them through the city and down the stairs and through the Elven encampment. "Remember, he's the king, and he's a very important ally for us. Best behavior!"

The children managed to hold it together until they ran into Tauriel, a female elf with auburn hair and golden weapons and forest-green clothing. She looked upset, but the children were too excited to have found her to see it. Smiling sadly at them, the golden-eyed elf bent her long, lean form in half and wrapped the children tightly in her arms, whispering Elvish blessings to them as they cried out their gladness at seeing her alive and well. "She was the elf who helped us escape the city," Sigrid murmured, remaining at her father's side as Bain and Tilda leaped into Tauriel's arms. "She saved the dwarf, too."

"Would you like to say goodbye?" Bard returned, voice just as quiet. Sigrid only nodded, beginning to look as upset as Tauriel; Bard gently placed a hand on her shoulder, urging her forward, and Sigrid fell into the other woman's arms just as easily as her siblings had. It made Bard's heart swell with happiness to see all three of his children bonding with the elf; Sigrid had been reserved around Legolas and Thranduil, but she seemed to bond with Tauriel much easier. Bard could see why: she was a softer, more maternal figure, but she was also strong and capable. Sigrid must see her as a role model.

"Master Bowman, if you'd like, go about your business," Tauriel said softly, looking up from the children for a moment. "I am on my way out as well, and will pass through the city as I leave...I can bring them home on my way out."

"They were going to come with me to personally thank your king for his aid," Bard said, hesitating to let the kids get off the hook so easily. "Would you mind bringing them to his tent in a few moments?"

At this, Tauriel looked like Bard had just slapped her across the face. Stricken, sad, grievously wounded, even: Bard couldn't tell with the meager light from the torches, but he could swear she was fighting tears. "I-...I apologize, but...it would be unwise for me to tarry," she said, voice dropping to a whisper, and Bard knew it was so it wouldn't break. "I would love very much to spend some time with your children, though...if you wouldn't mind-"

"No, they adore you," Bard said quickly. His mind was already spinning, wondering why Tauriel was leaving in such a hurry and in the opposite direction of the rest of the elves. Was she perhaps leaving with Legolas? Had she angered Thranduil somehow? What had she lost in this battle? "You may take them home. I'm sure they would much rather spend the time with you as well."

At this, Tauriel looked renewed and relieved. "Thank you," she breathed. "I will have them home safely in no more than an hour."

"I appreciate that," Bard replied, trying his best to smile for her. "Enjoy your time with them."

"Thank you. I hope to see you again someday, Bard."

"And I you."

It appeared that Tauriel appreciated his clumsy attempt at an Elven goodbye gesture; she gave him the saddest grin he'd ever seen in his life and properly executed the sweep of her arm from her heart to his. Nodding once to her, Bard left his children in her care and continued through the camp to Thranduil's tent. Located in the center of the little settlement on the hills, the tent was a soft yellow that was unlike the rest of the off-white, and significantly larger. It was divided into two equal sections: one for Thranduil to hold meetings in, and the other for his own space. Bard had never seen it, but he assumed it was a bedchamber of sorts. Even elves had to sleep, even if he'd never seen any of them lay down and rest. Was that was Thranduil was spending his night doing? Bard wondered. Finally resting after a long, hard few days? He'd led an army and a caravan from the forests, waged war, bartered and argued and run in circles with the rest of the rulers present, finally come to some sort of agreement with them, and was now preparing to make the long march home. He had to be resting, Bard told himself. But he fully planned on interrupting Thranduil's rest, because hell if he was letting the Elvenking get away from him so easily. Not when he had slipped away so many times before.

Unsurprisingly, he was stopped at the entrance to the tent. "King Thranduil is not seeing anyone this evening," one of the armored elves told him. "We apologize for-"

"Would you please just ask him?" Bard blurted out, not caring about the interruption. "Please, I wouldn't feel right if I allowed him to leave without properly thanking him for everything he has done for my people."

More than he could say for himself, the elf calmly listened to his entire sentence before answering. "He has specifically asked not to be disturbed," he reiterated. "You would stand your best chance if you waited until tomorrow morning when he is moving out."

"No, I won't be able to catch him then," Bard sighed. "He doesn't want to be caught right now, so that means no one will even get close to him." At a loss, Bard couldn't help but stand quietly for a few seconds, wracking his brain for solutions. Nothing he came up with was viable, by any means. Even if he called rank on Thranduil and demanded his presence, one king to another, Thranduil would likely just laugh. Thranduil was the higher-ranking of the two, having held his throne for thousands of years already, and if he wasn't bold enough to flat-out refuse because he knew he could get away with it, he would doubtless know of a loophole to circumvent Bard's summons. Setting his hands on his hips, Bard let his head hang and his lip slide between his teeth. He was out of ideas, and completely at a loss.

"Very well," he finally conceded. "Do please tell him that I send my thanks, as does my family and my people, and we regret that we were unable to show our gratitude properly." _Through no fault of our own._ He bit his tongue to hold the rest of the words back.

"Thank you, sir. We will pass along the message."

Pacing back through the encampment, Bard resigned himself to another early morning. He knew it was pointless to try to catch Thranduil tomorrow morning: as he'd said to the guards outside the tent, if the Elvenking didn't want to speak to anyone, he made it so that he positively couldn't be found, approached, or bothered. That didn't mean he wasn't angry about it, though. Oh, he was mad, alright. This didn't feel like Thranduil just happening to want to get some rest before he left tomorrow. This felt like Thranduil avoiding him. Avoiding everyone, in fact. It would appear that the rumors were true: the Elvenking was a cold, haughty, arrogant, detached ruler who preferred to stay sequestered in his forest and ignore anything he didn't want to acknowledge. A damn pity, and one that Bard ought to shrug off as, "no skin off my nose," but that dug under his skin in a way that he didn't like to admit. It shouldn't bother him that Thranduil preferred to cut himself off, but it did. Perhaps it was only because he hadn't gotten the chance to say goodbye.

He almost missed him when he walked past. Not ten feet away, perched elegantly on what used to be a fountain in the midst of a courtyard off to the left, sat the very man he sought, looking totally innocuous and completely normal under the starry sky. The moonlit street gave away nothing, as empty as it were, but motion caught the corner of his eye. Dressed in thick silver robes, the sleeves folded back to reveal crimson underneath, Thranduil sat with his legs crossed and his back rounded, his arms resting across his knees and his head bowed. Fine, silky blonde hair fell over one shoulder in a brilliant white-blonde waterfall; it was barely held out of his eyes by the silver crown that was becoming so familiar to Bard. It didn't even seen that the king had noticed him, even as his footsteps loudly scraped to a halt on the stone pavers that formed the steps he ascended.

Bard could only watch, spellbound once more, as Thranduil began to speak. Not so much speak as chant, but he wove a spell in soft, murmured words that sounded like the lilting song of an angel. It was not Westron; it had to be Elvish, from what little Bard knew of it. So elegant, so ethereal: like Thranduil himself. Lips and tongue wove a song of life and magic; long-fingers hands waved through the air, coaxing and pulling something forth from deep within the earth. A tingle went down the back of Bard's neck and continued to shiver down his spine as watched: he wasn't sure if he was supposed to be here for this, but it wasn't like he was leaving now.

He couldn't have left even if he wanted to after that, because what he saw next cemented his feet to the ground. From between the cobblestones, where weeds once grew through the cracks and missing stones, came a sprout. It was young and green and tender, but as he watched, Thranduil nursed the little plant with song and magic and drew it forth, imbuing it with strength and life and vitality. The little green sprout continued to stretch up and unfurl, reaching towards the starry night sky as Thranduil sang it forth from the soil. Up and up and up it grew, until Thranduil had to sit back and reach up to continue directing the plant's path. It became a tree then, its trunk filling out and branches sprouting from it. It became taller than both of them, filled out like a great evergreen, and became lush and green with life. And then, as Bard watched, fruit budded, ripened, and swelled on its branches: bright red, brilliant red, apples began to grow from the little pink blossoms that Thranduil had also nurtured. Bard was beside himself. He surely was not supposed to see this, but here he was, standing there watching Thranduil sing a tree out of the soil. And then, like it was absolutely nothing, the man boldly reached up into the tree and plucked an apple from its branch.

The apple hit him softly in the shoulder, finally breaking the spell.

"Thought you were hiding."

A smile came over Thranduil's face then, and Bard was only more frustrated by it. Even when Thranduil granted him an expression of some sort, he still didn't know if it was supposed to be a wry smirk or an amused grin. "I didn't want to be bothered," he said simply, reaching out to hold his hand palm-up beneath the tree. As if on cue, another apple slapped firmly into his waiting palm, and the king elegantly folded his limbs in again to take a bite out of the fruit. "I let everyone assume they knew where I was, didn't bother to correct them, and told my guards not to say anything, either. If I'm not holding audiences, it doesn't matter where I am, does it?"

Sickly genius, Bard bitterly mused. Still, he bent down and scooped up the apple from the ground, frowning at the fact that Thranduil had thrown it at him by means of acknowledging his presence. Although, he supposed he could have been acknowledged the same way Dain Ironfoot was. Perhaps this was just fine.

"I only wanted to thank you," Bard started, pacing his way across the courtyard to the king and tossing him back his apple.

"Again?" Thranduil dryly interrupted, raising a single dark brow at Bard. Glaring in his most intimidating fashion (it worked on his kids, but he doubted it would work on an Elf-King,) Bard seated himself next to Thranduil on the stone fountain, shifting a bit to get comfortable on the carved, round edge.

"Properly this time," Bard grouched, as Thranduil carefully placed the apple in the basin of the fountain behind them, taking another bite from his own. "But since you aren't receiving anyone this evening, I left my children with Tauriel and intend to return to my home and sulk over this slight."

It was his best attempt at being imperious and playing the game that the other rulers were quickly showing him, but all it got was a morbidly-amused chuckle. "While I appreciate the cheek, rest assured that I am aware of your gratitude," Thranduil remarked, head turning to peer off deeper into the courtyard. "I felt it more important to take a few moments to clear my own mind rather than continue to endlessly posture and stand on ceremony for people whose presence I don't quite enjoy."

"You don't enjoy my presence, then?" Bard challenged. He was proud of himself for managing to catch the Elvenking in such a snare, but of course, Thranduil was slippery and cunning, and sneaked right back out of it.

"Have you been in my company in the past few days?"

"...not since the battle began," Bard admitted. Thranduil mirthlessly snickered once.

"You have answered your own question."

"And you have yet to give me a straight answer," Bard once again rebuked. He shifted again on the fountain so that his body faced Thranduil, but the king was still turned away from him. "So you don't hate me. That's good, but still doesn't give me a great idea of what you actually do think of me."

"Kings don't need to discuss such matters amongst themselves," Thranduil sighed, and Bard was sure that this was the look Thranduil adopted when he was weary in mind and body alike. "As long as an agreement is reached at the end of the day, it matters not if kings enjoy each other's company."

"What about friends, then?" Bard tried. "Can I ask if you enjoy my company as a friend?"

"You consider us friends, bowman?"

Oh, God: there it was again. The endless thoughts rushing in, thoughts of all the very far-past-friends things he'd like to indulge in with this creature. Curiosity as to how cold his skin was, how soft his hair was, whether his body held an uncompromising strength or a yielding softness when enraptured in the throes of pleasure, if he would allow Bard to take control in even the slightest or if he would dominate the entire encounter, exercising his supreme strength as the king of thousands of years-

"I should hope so."

It was the best he could do, abruptly pinned under that piercing gaze. Thranduil took him apart in the best and worst of ways. Never before had Bard felt so naked and been so unashamed.

"You want more."

It wasn't a question; it was a statement. And finally, Bard had had enough. Which would he regret more: taking this chance, or missing it? "How could I not?" he gasped, all of the tension draining out of his body at once. The sudden release of this closely-guarded secret had taken a large weight off of his shoulders. "How could I gaze upon a creature of such beauty and not feel a pull? How could I see such strength and leadership and not be awed? How could I see such a loving father who my children adore and not want to see that loving care reflected in your eyes again? How can I stand before you and not wonder how deep you will let me dive?"

"The same way others do," Thranduil snapped, a dangerous edge to his voice now. "By seeing the ice encasing my heart and soul, knowing that you cannot break it, and leaving well enough alone!"

"I can't accept that," Bard protested. "All it took was the laughter of a child to make you smile and melt-"

"And have you no idea of the pain it also brings?!" Thranduil rounded on him now, leaning in with the deepest of sorrows mingled with the strongest of angers lacing his features. Now, Bard was taken aback: he felt himself flinching away slightly, but couldn't help it. It occurred to him that this was exactly why Thranduil didn't open up to people and let them in, because this was the reaction they got, but human nature was cruel and fickle and difficult to combat. "My own son has left me in a dispute over a woman! I raised him, cared for him, loved him, and gave him everything, especially in the wake of his mother's death-and he falls in love with a captain of my guard and throws away everything for her! Do you not understand? No one comes near me, because they see that everyone who has has not lasted, even the child I raised!"

Bard could only sit there, stock-still, in the wake of Thranduil's minuscule hint of fury. Utterly cowed: that was the best way to describe him at current. He hadn't the faintest idea how to respond to Thranduil's sudden outburst. Never once had the Elvenking raised his voice; never once had he grown aggressive or confrontational; never once had Bard felt the urge to flinch back from him in fear. All he saw was pain reflected back at him, and the terrible, horrible truth that this man had tried to be far too strong for far too long. Now, he could only stare helplessly at Thranduil. He'd been thrown into the rushing rapids of a river fed by mountain runoff, and he hadn't the faintest clue how to swim against the currents. Thranduil was an overpowering force, and Bard didn't know how to even begin to respond to him.

His silence must have stretched on for too long; Thranduil finally gave him a sneer, one meant to degrade and wound and drive away, but that only drove his pain home deeper. "No," the Elvenking declared, pushing off of the fountain and rising. Even when incensed, he was still so in control and so graceful, and it was maddening. "No, you would not understand." His eyes flickered once up and down Bard's form, and Bard couldn't tell if he was appraising or criticizing...or wondering what could have been. "The lives of _men_ are far too short to garner any wisdom."

The moment Thranduil spun around to walk away, his unique spell was broken. Bard was free to move again, and never had he wanted to more. Leaping to his feet, the bowman moved without thought for repercussion, watchful eyes, or even his own thoughts that would return to plague him later. Catching up to Thranduil in just a few short bounds, Bard reached out, eyes narrowed and brows furrowed in displeasure, and fisted a hand in elegant silver robes. He suspected it was more the shock of being grabbed in such a manner that prompted Thranduil to spin around, true ire sparking behind his eyes and hand raised to bat Bard's aside. Bard didn't give him time to act or even speak, though: diving forward, he tangled his other hand in Thranduil's fine golden hair and pressed their lips together.

Oh, he was well aware that men had died for less than stealing a kiss from the Elvenking. That was why he made it count. Leaning in as much as he could, cursing the fact that Thranduil had several inches' worth of height on him, Bard forced himself to close his eyes and focus on nothing but the sensation of tingling that seized his entire body when he laid his hands on Thranduil. The elf's body was cool, but strong, like a polished and carved stone. His hair was like spun silk. His skin was like satin. And his lips were so soft they could have been a woman's, were it not for the strong jaw and heavy brow and masculine cheeks that skimmed under Bard's fingertips. He couldn't feel Thranduil's hands on him, but could feel that the king's back was arched and his legs were parted for balance; they'd hit the ramparts, and Thranduil's hands fell to the stone rather than to Bard. He leaned away, he realized: he hadn't raised a blade to him, nor had he shoved him off, but he had given Bard no reciprocation.

He backed away at this thought, staring at the king in amazement. If Thranduil was truly offended, he would have very firmly shown Bard his place. Perhaps he would not have taken his life, but he would have paid dearly for the impulsive, reckless, inappropriate move. No such retribution had come, though. All Thranduil did was...nothing. It was becoming a frustrating, irritating, aggravating, downright-vexing trait of the king's, and even as Bard stood there and stared at him, golden hair mussed from his grasping hands and head bowed, for once not raised in regality, he couldn't bring himself to reign himself back in.

"For the star's sake, Thranduil, are you even still _alive-?"_

"Tîn!"

Although the word was foreign, the meaning struck Bard instantly: it was issued with authority, and had the desired effect of halting him in his tracks. Furious eyes rose to fixate on him once again, and the familiar tendrils of Thranduil's enchantment wound their way around him once more. He'd only made it a few staggered steps back away from the king, but Thranduil was careful to make it take forever as he paced back towards him, Elvish words falling from his tongue like water rolling off a stone, weathered by time and beaten into smoothness by the sea. "Ci be-chennas? Ci ben-ind? Man te?" The king paused, appearing frustrated beyond measure that Bard was just staring at him blankly, the words all flying right over his head. Well, perhaps not completely: he had a feeling they weren't friendly. Squaring up to Bard, leaning down a bit to meet him on eye level, Thranduil spoke slowly and purposefully, enunciating every single syllable of every single word. Bard's hackles were immediately raised: did this man think him slow? "Do you not see?" Thranduil whispered, something unreadable crossing into his eyes. "Do you not understand? I know what feelings you harbor within your heart, Bowman: you think that your lingering glances have escaped my notice, you think that your breathlessness in my presence goes unseen? No. And even worse, do you think I would refuse you, should you approach me? When was the last time anyone, man, woman, even child, looked me in the eyes without fear or revulsion or hatred or blame? For that is to bear the crown, Bard-to be the scapegoat. To be the whipping boy. To be to blame. To be alone! To have everyone believe, as you have, that you are made of ice and stone...and no longer alive."

Something within Thranduil broke at that final statement, and even though he still held Bard in his steely gaze, the mortal man found that his tongue and limbs had both been loosened. "My Lord, I-...I never meant to offend-"

"But you have!"

The fire returned, but Bard swallowed hard and soldiered on, fighting the enchantment with every word. "Allow me to take it back, then...allow me to soothe the pain my words have brought you." Tentatively, he reached out one hand to Thranduil, eyeing both the man's piercing gaze and his hand as if he might be bitten for the gesture. He was hesitant, ginger, tentative-but he wove his heated fingers in between the chilled ones of the elf. His hands were calloused and rough from work and from wielding a weapon bare-handed; Thranduil's were impossibly soft and smooth, never knowing work save for a blade, and even then having the luxury of gloves and gauntlets to protect against injury. Bard's hands were wrinkled with the signs of hard work, and criss-crossed with dozens of tiny scars from miscellaneous lifetime happenings. There was dirt under his nails and blood in his knuckles. But somehow, his tanned flesh was gladly accepted by the porcelain perfection that he reached out to, and he felt the rush of relief that came over him like a cool spring in the summer as long fingers very slowly closed around his own.

It was now or never, do or die: and Bard had come too far to back down now. Lunging forward again, seizing the king's lips in another kiss just as passionate but twice as bold, Bard used their joined hands to pull Thranduil closer to himself so that every inch of their fronts was pressed together. There was still entirely too much clothing in between them; but at least now he had his hands on the beautiful elf. Thranduil, it seemed, was finally out of resistance to offer. Slowly at first, he began to push back into Bard, like he was trying to remember how to be intimate with a man instead of a blade. A thought occurred to Bard then, as he pondered Thranduil's reluctance and hesitance-

"Have you ever lain with a man?" he questioned, allowing his forehead to rest against the king's. A rush of air poured over his lips instead of a response, and Bard's eyes were open enough to see that Thranduil's were not.

"You, the man of thirty years ask me, the man of three thousand, which of us has more experience laying with our own?"

Bard flushed and did not respond; he thought it was a fair question, knowing nothing of elf culture at all, let alone Thranduil's views on their traditions and customs. "It is not common among humans," Bard offered, hoping to clarify the reason for his inquiry. "People are expected to lie with the opposite gender, one person at a time...faithful to the opposite sex."

"You can be faithful to the same sex," Thranduil replied evenly, and Bard was finally graced by the feeling of one long-fingered hand sliding around his waist to rest in his lower back. "Or you can have many lovers. It all depends on the person or people you are with, and those around you who you trust. It is surprisingly easy to be discreet about who you sleep with, especially when your culture is thus that people don't regard it as their own business."

"You are fortunate, then," Bard returned. "The race of Man seems to think it entertaining to know who everyone else sleeps with."

"Now that is unfortunate indeed."

This time, it was Thranduil who closed the distance between them, and Bard felt naught but a shock of ice. Snowflakes, knocked from the ramparts and pooled at their feet, seemed to explode across Bard's mind as Thranduil's cold kiss graced his lips again. Ice crystals and creeping frost swept over him, yet the sting of the cold bothered him not. He'd never felt warmer.

"Since my people seem to be more respectful...shall we return to my quarters rather than yours?"

"Mine might be quieter," Bard offered. "Tauriel has my kids for an hour or so...they adore her, so they'll be out of the house for a while."

"I should hate for any of them to walk in on something. My quarters it is."

"Wait! What about your guards?"

Thranduil had already taken a step forward, using their joined hands to tug Bard along with him. Stopping at Bard's protest, almost seeming exasperated with the mortal man's hesitation, the elf declared, "Well, if we can hold ourselves with some manner of propriety and dignity until we are in private, none shall have reason to take notice. And my tent can be made silent if need be." Clearly disbelieving, Thranduil assuaged Bard's worries with the reminder, "I can sing a tree from naught but a single forgotten seed; I can cast a silencing spell if it so pleases you. And if you don't trust that, perhaps you can exercise self-control and trust that my guards do not gossip about their king."

This at last seemed to persuade him; Bard took one step forward, and then another, and then he was walking beside Thranduil, their hands carefully tucked between them until they reached the bottom of the staircase. They released each other to walk through the town, out of the city, and into the Elven camp just outside. As promised, they garnered no more attention than usual. They spoke softly when they did, and at other times did not speak at all. No one found it strange at all, least of all the two of them. Thranduil seemed perfectly unaffected, but Bard's heart was racing the entire walk back. His breath came hard and fast, and he could barely control it enough to appear normal in the face of so many people still inexplicably up and about. He was sure the elves could hear his labored heartbeat and pounding heart, but to his relief, no one even batted an eye. Even Thranduil's guards said nothing, didn't even cast a funny look at his appearance, and Thranduil made no effort to explain. Such security in his authority, Bard noted, that he didn't even feel the need to reassure his guards. And such confidence in his men, as well! Following just at Thranduil's heels as they disappeared into the back section of the tent, Bard kept his focus on the king just long enough to hear the softly-spoken Elvish that rolled forth to grace his ears with the pleasant sounds like tinkling bells. He felt no different, nothing new, save for the slightest shiver go through him as Thranduil uttered the words: the Elvenking's power had fallen upon this area, and he assumed that was the spell of silence of which Thranduil spoke. With the spell set, the king turned back to Bard, one brow raised in something like expectancy.

Bard hadn't even caught the movement that sent the king's resplendent robes cascading from his shoulders to gather in a pool of liquid silver at the man's feet, but all of a sudden his chest was bare and his boots were abandoned in a similarly-subtle way and he was approaching Bard with measured steps of incomparable grace. Bard's breath halted in his throat, seized in his chest; his eyes ceased to blink as they eagerly drank in the magnificent sight in front of him. King Thranduil of the Wood-Elves of Mirkwood, the Ice King of the Woodland Realm, the most beautiful creature on earth...was offering himself to Bard. He wanted him. And somehow, it took everything within Bard's mortal body not to question that fact.

Swallowing did not ease the dryness in his mouth, nor did it banish the lump in his throat, but it did unlock his tongue, seemingly bound by the same silencing spell that Thranduil had put on their surroundings. "Are...King Thranduil, are you-?"

"Do not ask me if I am certain, mortal. You are not questioning me; you are questioning yourself."

Wiser than Bard could have ever wanted, understood, or dreamed, he noted ruefully. The man was an enigma, and there was no hope of untangling the mystery that was King Thranduil. It was all he could do to accept what was in front of him, and do as the king advised: not to raise questions. He really ought to trust that a man who had been around for thousands of years would know what he wanted. Swallowing again, hard, noting how Thranduil's eyes flickered the ripple in his throat, Bard ever-so-carefully shed his coat. It was a significantly less graceful maneuver than Thranduil's had been...but it got the job done.

For how slowly the first few minutes of their interaction had passed, the next few went by in a blur. Tangled in each other's hands and mouths, clothing was carelessly tossed aside in favor of being able to press lips and hands to more skin. The tent was warm enough that the winter chill did not reach them-more Elvish magic, for what else could it be?-and Bard had no reservations about disrobing. Thranduil's hands were light, easy, and practiced, and made short work of his garments. Every flick of his fingers was another rush of heat and anticipation for Bard, because it belied the skill and dexterity in Thranduil's hands. His own hands, meanwhile, fumbled and made desperate moves, but Thranduil was still flushed with pleasure apparently at nothing more than the heat of his touch. Where Thranduil enchanted him with skill unrivaled, Bard offered pleasure in the sheer desire he emanated. With the last of their clothing shed, Thranduil wasted no time in walking a few steps back, tugging Bard along until he could gracefully drop onto the bed, every move like water rolling into a glass, rushing around, and settling. Here, Bard balked, but a simple tugging coax pulled him down onto the plush blankets as well. Thranduil's body unfolded, and his limbs moved with coiled energy and serpentine fluidity. The message was clear: _I am content to lay beneath you._ The thought alone successfully wiped Bard's mind blank and clear for a solid block of five seconds; it took that long for the idea to sink in.

He moved slowly at first. Before, he had been confident and forward, desperate for more; now, though, passing into unfamiliar territory, he balked again. Never halted, though: never gave Thranduil anything to show him that stopping was what he desired. Still, as his hands skated up and across the flat planes of a muscled abdomen, stomach, ribs, chest, and finally shoulders, Thranduil squirmed with impatience, pointedly bucking up to grind his hips against Bard's. Once again, the Elvenking managed to steal his breath, being such a tease: their bare flesh pressed together was an odd combination of fire and ice, and Bard wasn't about to let the moment slip away.

"Peace," he whispered, letting his body follow his hands and lay against Thranduil's chest. Pressing his lips to the slight groove in the elf's throat, Bard added, "I want to do this slowly so that I can do it right."

He received nothing but an annoyed snicker in return. "The only way you will fail to please me is if you leave me untouched," Thranduil grouched. "Think not of your worries-let your body guide you. You'd be surprised at just how instinctual it can be."

He'd never thought it could be instinctual-not in the way that being with a woman was. At least, not for him. He knew that there were people who regarded their own gender as more natural than the opposite, and far be it from him to judge-but he was not one of them, and it was foreign to look down and see a smooth chest where there should have been the swells of breasts, and to look further and see a straight, tapered waist instead of an hourglass, thicker lines and straighter contours instead of smooth curves and lighter silhouettes. It was odd, but...not unwelcome. Especially not with a body this beautiful. And it was a gift that he would not waste. He would not miss this chance as he had missed so many others. So many times he could have spoken, and didn't. No more.

One more kiss against his lover's neck-then, he sat up again, the movement nowhere near as lovely as Thranduil could have made it but smooth enough all the same. His hands followed him, trailing back with just the fingertips touching Thranduil's skin this time. It was a different sensation, one that Thranduil seemed to enjoy more. He pressed against Bard's hands now where he had remained static before, his spine rolling in one continuous move. Only one hand left his body this time; the other kept going, traveling down farther than Bard had dared go before. This time, he raised his pelvis and let his hand slide between Thranduil's legs, fingers tentative but searching. A part of him was still anxious about undertaking this new experience, yes, but now there was also excitement mixed in. He was willing to put faith in Thranduil's admonishment now; he could trust the Elvenking's admission that nothing would cause him to think badly of their tryst unless Bard left him before seeing it through. Especially when he felt the decisive arching of Thranduil's spine, the desperate thrust of pressure against his hand, and heard the smallest moan of pleasure break through the king's normally-silent lips.

"I-I'm not going to have you dry," Bard stammered, hoping Thranduil would understand his meaning without requiring elaboration. It would seem so; Thranduil impatiently handed him a small bottle of oil that he had apparently conjured from thin air. Well, he was out of excuses, and the more time he took to think about this the worse off both of them would be. He'd only make himself nervous and make Thranduil impatient. Liberally coating his fingers, Bard once again decided that simply going forward was the best way to execute things, and pushed a finger straight into Thranduil.

The sudden moan of ecstasy, the exaggerated arch in his spine, the way his hands tangled desperately in the sheets, the way his eyes slid shut and his breath panted out through slack lips...everything about Thranduil was the picture of bliss. Bard tried to focus more on that than the sudden grip Thranduil's passage had taken on his finger-whether to push him out or drag him in, he couldn't tell. Either way, Thranduil was euphoric at just this, the simplest of penetrations. "How long has it been since anyone has touched you so intimately?" Bard whispered, sliding his own weight back to rest farther back on the bed between Thranduil's legs. More comfortable, he bent down to press a quick kiss against his lover's hip, using his free hand to rest on Thranduil's thigh and steady him as his muscles quivered at the sudden burst of pleasure coursing through him.

"Far too long," the king replied breathlessly, "but not so long that I cannot take another."

Bard regarded that as his cue. Withdrawing briefly, only long enough to set his first and middle finger together, he plunged back in, the slick of oil easing his passage even as Thranduil constricted around him. The king whined and arched again, pressing down into Bard's hand with an eagerness and candidness that the bowman had never thought he would see from such a stoic man. "Easy," he murmured absently, bowing his head to take in the long lines of Thranduil's legs as he trailed his free hand up and down the hairless flesh of the one thigh that Thranduil had propped up. "Slow."

"Do something!" Thranduil grouched. "It will hasten the process-"

"I'm not rushing this," Bard protested, but slowly began to draw his fingers out of Thranduil's passage and then just as slowly pushed them back in. The whines and whimpers and moans the motion drew were encouraging; building with every stroke, Bard increased his pace until Thranduil was truly breathless, driving down to meet him with every stroke and eagerly accepting any touch Bard would give him, no matter how gentle or rough. For the time being, Thranduil was placated, but Bard knew that the moment he grew content was the moment to push. He was learning quickly how Thranduil preferred his lovers treat him, and it wasn't nearly as gentle or romantic as he had originally envisioned it to be.

Moments later, Thranduil began to twist and buck again. This time, he didn't even have to ask; Bard gave him a third finger's worth of width, this time feeling the stretch himself as Thranduil struggled to adjust. Slowing down again, soothing his lover with sweet caresses and tender whispers, Bard took a moment to hold still and coax the blonde elf into relaxing around his hand. For once, Thranduil didn't complain; perhaps he even melted into the softer touches. It was difficult to tell, with both of them so deep in lust they couldn't see straight. Still, Bard would think over this moment for many nights to come, wondering if he really had felt the softening of Thranduil's body that he thought he had.

When the squirming started again, so did Bard. Thrusting deep into Thranduil, twisting his fingers, parting them slightly to get a bit more room without the strain of a fourth finger, Bard worked meticulously and carefully to open Thranduil's body without pain. The elf felt virgin to Bard's hands, which had only ever touched women before: still, he imagined that anyone properly prepared or even used to this would open more quickly and more readily. He understood now that this was about all that he would be able to get from Thranduil; the elf's body had opened as much as it was going to. And Thranduil was beginning to get impatient again. "Tease!" he accused, when Bard began drifting kisses across his abdomen, closer and closer to his hardened length. He felt more than saw the smirk Bard gave him, pressed as it was to his skin.

"Not so, my dear," Bard murmured, kissing down again. "Merely seeking a distraction to lessen your discomfort."

He got a low, guttural growl in response, one that shocked him for its feral nature. He hadn't thought such a spirit lie within the king, but Thranduil was full of surprises today, it would seem. "My only discomfort is how ungodly slow you're taking this!"

Bard finally felt comfortable enough to laugh at loud at Thranduil's irritability. "Patience, love," he soothed, trying not to think of how many times he'd said that to his wife. "Very soon. I don't want to cause pain that could have been easily avoided." Another series of fluttering kisses for reassurance; finally, Bard sat up and slipped his fingers free. He had been trying to keep the bedsheets relatively clean, but given the mess that was beginning to pool underneath Thranduil, he was about ready to give up on such a noble cause. Still, he tried to be neat as he slicked up his length, struggling not to hiss at the sudden rush that the contact gave him. He couldn't imagine how incredible it would feel to bury himself in the tight passages that he had just removed his fingers from. Thranduil was strangely warmer inside than out; his skin was cool but his entrance was hot, creating a dichotomy of sensations that drove Bard positively mad with desire.

He only hesitated one more time: when Thranduil pressed his hands to the tangled sheets, lifted his hips, and slid the perfectly-rounded surface of his rump up Bard's thighs to press against him. Shushing him, setting both hands on his hips, Bard rubbed small circles in the indentations on the inside of each bone, looking down at Thranduil with something between awe and adoration on his face. Thranduil had lined him up perfectly: all he needed to do was cant his hips forward and he would have officially lain with a man. The Elvenking, no less! And what a conquest it would be. Still, he could not linger too long, or he would in fact miss his chance. So he widened his knees, firmly wrapped his fingers around Thranduil's hips, and met him halfway.

The euphoria on Thranduil's face at finally being breached was radiant. It looked as though an ache that had gone untreated for years had finally been soothed; a wound long festered, debrided and treated. Despite his breath coming quickly and shallowly through his lips, his pulse fluttering in the parts of him that Bard could feel, and his skin beginning to grow clammy with sweat, he seemed happier than he had been in the entire short time that Bard had known him. Grasping at the sheets again like he would lose his grip on reality if he released them, head thrown back, and back arched, Thranduil was art in living, breathing form. Bard was, as always, captivated: and now, he could be even more floored by the fact that he could now call this amazing creature his lover.

After a few moments of indulgence, though, Thranduil finally called him out on the patience that Bard possessed but he did not. Reaching up, eyes focusing once more, Thranduil's stomach rippled in a smooth waves of muscular contractions to lift his upper body without the slightest of hitches or efforts on his part. Rising halfway, propping himself on an elbow, Thranduil dug his hands into Bard's hair, dragged the bowman down to bend double over him, and growled at him: "I faced down ten thousand orcs today and bore not a scratch; what part of me do you fancy breakable?"

Bard could only give him a sad, knowing smile at first. Ah, how precious this answer would be: for it would be now that his intentions would become clear. He didn't want this to be a passing fling, nor did he want it to be a one-time deal. He wanted to see this flourish and blossom; he wanted to be a light in a dark place, a small bit of happiness and respite to fall back on when life got overwhelming. He wanted to be Thranduil's lover for as long as he could be: and wanted to share in every part of him. Raising a hand of his own, ensuring that it was the clean one, Bard ever-so-gently pushed his fingers back into Thranduil's hair, letting the blonde strands part and fall where they would around him like a waterfall of silk. Summoning every ounce of love and kindness within him, he wrapped his other arm around Thranduil's waist, holding him close as he let his hand rest in Thranduil's hair: a lover's touch.

"The part that sang a tree to life from nothing."

Every remaining shard of ice left around Thranduil melted in those simple words. It was true: that part of him was fragile indeed, very fragile. So long had that little piece of him gone without nurture and love and even acknowledgment; so long had anyone taken the care to treat him gently and kindly and softly, to touch him as a lover in fact would. Thranduil had grown hard and calloused to this sort of attention, and Bard was trying to re-attune him to it. It was a trick he had picked up from Thranduil himself: instead of raising your voice, shouting at others and dulling their ears to your words, whisper to them and let them lean in to hear you. Your presence could not be overwhelming, lest your recipients grow accustomed to volume and force. By speaking softly, you invited others to you, and thus showed who truly desired a place at your side by showing who was willing to listen.

Thranduil smiled then: a true, genuine smile from his heart. It was the most beautiful thing Bard had ever seen, because at last, the ice in Thranduil's deep blue eyes had melted, leaving behind only an ocean of depth. Bard couldn't imagine the last time anyone had seen Thranduil like this...nor could he imagine the reason no one since had seen it. "Anthon 'uren angin," he spoke, leaning forward to whisper the words against pointed ears covered by blonde hair. His Elvish was clumsy and he knew it, but he hoped it would achieve the desired effect. In reality, he'd stumbled across the phrase upon hearing two elves exchange it as one went off to battle and the other was left in the infirmary; Bard had later inquired after the meaning, and when he came to find out that it meant, "I give you my heart," well...he'd hoped he would have the opportunity to use his new-found knowledge.

The chuckle he got in response was amused, but not mocking. "Anthon 'ûr nîn anden," Thranduil corrected quietly. "You speak to a man, not a woman."

Though he blushed a bit at the correction, Bard faithfully squirreled the knowledge away for later. Thranduil didn't offer him much more time than that: the next thing he did was lean up to meet Bard again, rolling his hips down to grind against Bard and slip in another inch Bard didn't even know he had. Hissing slightly, struggling to remain still with the new flood of pleasure, Bard only succeeded partway as he wriggled and squirmed and pressed right back against the Elvenking. Staying close, purposely contracting his muscles around Bard's length until the man gasped and shuddered and moaned and his hands spasmed around the king's hips, Thranduil brushed aside Bard's dark hair much the same way Bard had done with his lighter locks and quietly but firmly declared, "Melo nin."

He seemed to know Bard was lost long before he fluidly leaned back and laid out again, languidly lifting a leg to wrap around Bard's waist. His expression was once again confident bordering on arrogant, and he looked so damn smug and imperious that Bard knew he was up to mischief.

"In the crass tongues of men, it means, 'fuck me,' dammit."

There was nothing left to do; so Bard leaned down, claimed one more kiss from smirking lips, and began to lay with his lover properly at last.

 

 

 

Tîn!=Quiet!  
Ci be-chennas?=Are you stupid?  
Ci ben-ind?=Are you insane?  
Man te?=What is it?  
Anthon 'uren angin=I give you my heart (feminine)  
Anthon 'ûr nîn anden=I give you my heart (neutral)  
Melo nin=Make love to me/Love me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this be the end of a wild ride, folks. As of this chapter I have 34 people subscribed to this, 106 kudos, and over 2000 hits. I'm overwhelmed by the amazing positive response to this, and it makes me so happy to see so many people enjoying reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thank you to everyone who read, left kudos, commented, bookmarked, and subscribed. Hopefully I'll see you again when I publish a bit more work!
> 
> Also, I'm pretty sure my Elvish is rubbish, so if anyone could suggest good sites/translators/dictionaries/whatever, that would be great...@_@

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, God it happened. @_@ These two are adorable. Just saw BotFA for the second time and that look they shared over the Arkenstone when Bilbo gives it to them...just...everything. For a while I was thinking I had nothing to add to this pairing, because the Boundaries 'Verse series by Sir_Nemo pretty much covered every aspect of their relationship from start to finish-go read it, it's what got me into this pairing-but then I had an idea. The Lord of Lorien by Evandar (another wonderful read; go check out Kings of the North series) got me thinking a bit, and so I have an idea that I'd like to explore. In the mean time, all I see is Thranduil coming to Bard, so here's Bard coming to Thranduil instead. That's my contribution to this pairing. And I see this going somewhere again, so keep an eye out-I might have myself a series in the near future. @_@ Thank you to everyone who leaves me comments and kudos-you guys keep me writing!


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